nyslfriends Chapter 201 The First Night of Moving Out
Chapter 201 The First Night of Moving Out
As darkness fell, the last cart finally entered Zhenyuan Outer Camp.
The open space at the crossroads, which was just flattened mud during the day, now has three rows of wooden frames erected, with oil lamps hanging on them. Stovetops are set up along the windward path, the fire kept low so the smoke drifts towards the river, avoiding any choking fumes. The grain sacks that were moved out earlier are piled up to waist height, covered with old tarpaulins. Stones are weighed down by the corners of the tarpaulin, making a flapping sound when the wind blows it.
As soon as people arrive, the first thing to do, without asking anything else, is to distribute hot water.
Si Mo moved the table under the lamp, placing four notebooks on it. One notebook recorded people, one recorded illnesses, one recorded whereabouts, and one recorded the bedding, pots, and pans that were taken away that evening. The apprentice squatted to the side grinding ink, his hands completely black, even the bridge of his nose was smeared with ink.
"Those who can stand on their own, line up on the left first. Those carrying children, go to the right. Those with mobility issues, sit by the fire first." He didn't even look up, rattling off one sentence after another, "Give your name. If you don't have an old invitation, give your usual address."
No one was urging us to push forward.
When they rushed out of the paper city during the day, everyone was afraid that if they were a step slower, they would be forgotten. But when they actually arrived at the camp and saw porridge in the pot and straw mats in the shed, they slowed down, as if they could finally relax and catch their breath.
Chen Fan stood on a slightly higher earthen slope and looked around.
There's a shortage of people to keep watch at night on the mountain pass. The port area lacks porters and people who know the waterways. The two markets lack people who can do accounting, hawk their wares, and deal with outsiders. Huichao Port is the worst off; it's far away, and the nights are damp. They have to dismantle the dilapidated sheds by the dock first and then build new accommodations.
These are not empty titles; someone has to take them on.
Ah Chao came over carrying wooden plaques, which were stacked in four piles. He wrote words on them with charcoal.
"We'll do it your way." He squatted down and spread out the cards. "Yamaguchi, Port Area, Two-Border Market, Huichao Port. It's voluntary. After you've chosen, keep a record. We'll issue the guide ropes tonight, and everyone goes there tomorrow morning."
Chen Fan nodded: "Let's make things clear first. You'll have rations for the first three days, no matter where you go. Sick people will be taken care of first. Children won't be counted as laborers. If you want to change locations, come back in three days."
Ah Chao grinned: "Your rules are even more detailed than those of the street officials."
"It's better to be more meticulous." Chen Fan looked at the people below the slope. "They just came out tonight, and I'm most afraid of feeling unsettled."
Before long, the first group of people arrived in front of the sign.
She was a woman carrying a wooden box. The child in her arms was asleep, his face buried in the crook of her shoulder, his nose twitching. She first looked at the mountain pass, then back at Chaogang, and finally fixed her gaze on the two-way market.
"What skills do they need over there?" she asked.
Ah Chao replied, "It doesn't matter if you can't. As long as you dare to speak, that's fine. Can you read?"
"Recognize one thing."
"Will you give change?"
"I can calculate it clearly."
Ah Chao handed her the sign for the Two Worlds Market: "Set up your stall over there first. You take care of the child, so don't carry anything heavy. Go register and get a small pot."
The woman took the wooden plaque, paused for a moment, and asked in a low voice, "Can I bring my old family name card too?"
"You keep it yourself," Chen Fan said. "The notice is the notice, and the person is the person. Let's settle the person down first."
The woman nodded and took the child to Si Mo's side.
A tall, thin man followed behind, his sleeves still covered in paper dust.
What kind of people does the port area need?
"What can you do?" Ah Chao asked.
"I've been across the river, carried salt sacks, and know how to mend nets."
"To the port area."
"Where are you staying?"
"You'll stay in the greenhouse for now. After we move the warehouse tomorrow, we'll clear out a row of houses for you."
The man didn't ask any more questions, took the cards, and left. After taking two steps, he turned back: "How much for rations?"
Si Mo overheard this and replied with his pen, "One meal tonight, two meals tomorrow. Keep a record of your work, and separate the records for sick patients. You won't be shortchanged."
There was some commotion in the crowd.
It wasn't arguing, but the kind of sound where your shoulders slump down after you've truly understood.
The further along the journey, the faster people choose their destinations.
Those with strong legs mostly went to the mountain pass and port area. Those with elderly people or children at home mostly chose the two markets. There were also about a dozen young men who heard that there was a shortage of people to set up tents in Huichao Port, so they went over and took the signs themselves. They didn't even ask about the wages, they just asked where they would sleep.
Xuanzang and several apprentices were distributing straw mats under the shed. A young novice was carrying a bundle of hemp rope, running back and forth, sweating profusely. Some people, seeing that he was a monk, initially hesitated, but after he squatted down to prop up an old man's backpack while he coughed violently, the people around slowly began to speak.
"Is it drafty over there?"
"It leaks. Cover it with a cloth for the night."
"Is the well far?"
"It's not far, take turns hitting the wooden barrels."
What should I do if my child has a fever at night?
"Go to the east shed. The medicine stove is already on fire."
There were only questions and answers, nothing too grand. The people gradually dispersed.
When night completely fell, the campsite looked like a newly sewn sack, the stitches still rough, but at least it could hold everything.
At this moment, Lu Shouye was brought to the table.
He had changed out of his blue robe. The corner of the old robe was burned, so Si Mo asked someone to bring him a coarse cloth short jacket. The jacket didn't fit him well, and it was too tight on his shoulders. He stood in the lamplight, his face even paler than in daylight, but his hands were neatly tucked into his sleeves.
The street officials who had come out with him earlier were also behind him. Some had their heads down, and some were even subconsciously touching their waists. The lot-drawing container that should have been there was now empty.
Lu Shouye glanced at the booklet on the table a few times before finally speaking: "Writing it like this will only make things confusing."
Si Mo didn't look up: "Where's the mess?"
"When people move out, they still need to keep their registration numbers. Each household should have a separate number for each person, with the sick marked and children signed separately. The destination should also be marked, not just the name." Lu Shouye spoke slowly, as if reciting a set of familiar phrases. "If we don't keep these numbers, there will be mistakes in replenishing food and medicine, and in transferring people."
Ah Chao, listening from the side, chuckled: "You want to cover this place with notes?"
Lu Shouye ignored him and only looked at Chen Fan: "The paper number isn't for binding people. It's for managing people."
Chen Fan looked at him: "We won't use the Paper City trick tonight."
Lu Shouye's eyebrows twitched slightly: "When there are more of you, you'll naturally realize how useful it is."
"Keep what's useful," Chen Fan said. "Don't keep what you can use to blackmail people."
Lu Shouye remained silent for a moment, his gaze falling on the destination register. Each person's information was clearly written down: where they were going, who they were going with, what items they received, how many people were in their family, and whether they were ill. The handwriting wasn't neat, but the pages flowed smoothly.
He probably realized that this wasn't just random memorization.
Si Mo then pushed a thin booklet in front of him.
It's not a complete set. The cover isn't even glued on, and the corners are still rough. The first page has three words written on it: "Workbook".
Lu Shouye looked down and didn't reach out.
"For me?" he asked.
"Here you go," Si Mo said. "I'll remember this."
"What do you mean?"
"Two rows of wooden stakes are still missing from the empty shed on the east side. Someone needs to stand guard by the irrigation ditch and keep track of what people receive. You'll be responsible for recording who did what work and who received what meals."
Lu Shouye's expression changed: "I am the signing officer."
"Not now." Si Mo finally looked up. "If you want to stay, then get to work first. I'll give you the job title, but not your person."
After he finished speaking, the street officials standing nearby froze for a moment.
They followed the crowds out during the day, saying they were moving out, but deep down they still clung to their old status. They always felt that even though the place had changed, the rules would still apply to them. At this moment, the sight of that work book made their meaning clear.
You can leave it. You can also keep a record. But what you should record isn't who should listen to you, who carried timber tonight, or who went to drive piles tomorrow morning.
Lu Shouye twitched his fingers and finally picked up the booklet.
The cover was rough, and the paper was poor quality. He flipped through two pages and stopped in the middle. A few lines had already been written on that page: East shed, missing twelve wooden stakes. West stove, missing two buckets of water. Medicine stove, missing six bundles of firewood. The writing was by Si Mo, the strokes stiff and devoid of any ornamentation.
"Where's the pen?" Lu Shouye asked.
Si Mo tossed the old penholder over.
"Grind the ink yourself."
Lu Shouye caught it and stood there for a while before heading towards the east shed.
He wasn't walking fast, but his back wasn't as straight as before.
Ah Chao watched his retreating figure and clicked his tongue: "That's it? I thought he'd be arguing all night."
"There's no use arguing." Si Mo lowered his head and flipped through the book. "What we lack tonight are people to set up the tents, not officials."
Chen Fan did not respond.
The firelight below the slope stretched as far as the eye could see. The newcomers had already dispersed; some were collecting straw mats, some were eating porridge around the pot, and some were squatting on the ground unpacking their bundles. The child cried for a while, then drank some hot soup and fell asleep again in his parents' arms. The woman who had received her token first at the Two Realms Market was washing a small pot by the water, glancing up at the camp gate every now and then, as if still worried that someone might come after her. After looking several times, and seeing that the gate remained quiet, she slowly lowered her shoulders.
Not far away, Lu Shouye was already squatting at the entrance of the east shed, holding that old pen, asking the first person who carried the wooden stake what his name was.
The man put the wood on the ground and, panting, replied, "Zhao Sanhuai. Three pieces. Write that down."
Lu Shouye lowered his head and wrote.
The pen tip scratched across the rough paper, making a soft, rustling sound.
Chapter 720 Seventh Tier of Cover Signing
As dawn broke, the first thing to ignite in the camp was the fire.
The big pot at the east end of the shed was set up again, the charcoal left over from last night still glowing red. Two more pieces of firewood were added, and the pot began to make a creaking sound. The child coughed, and the woman soothed him softly. The man carrying the logs rolled over, rubbed his legs, and sat up to go find water.
Lu Shouye did not return to the city command all night.
He was still squatting by the table, his back slumped, the old pen in his hand having been rolled twice, the nib split open. The coarse paper was covered with a dense layer of paper, looking like a newly built wall at first glance.
Chen Fan came in from outside the shed, his feet wet with water from the grass.
"How much last night?"
Lu Shouye raised his eyelids slightly, his throat dry: "One hundred and seventeen people were moved out. Eighty-six could walk on their own. Twenty-three were carried out. Eight turned back halfway to look for others, and six were later found. There are two more, Si Mo is at the core."
Chen Fan hummed in agreement and flipped the stack of papers to the back.
The last page is half empty.
He pointed with his hand: "Don't leave any empty spaces."
Lu Shouye was taken aback.
"Write what?"
"Write down the destination," Chen Fan said. "Which row of sheds is east, which row of sheds is west, and which houses are next to which. If someone comes looking for you later, they can check this first, so you don't have to run all over the camp."
Lu Shouye lowered his head and made two notes, but stopped halfway through.
"What about seventh gear?"
Chen Fan put the paper down and looked in the direction of the city commander.
"Once you've opened it once, you can't just put it back in the cabinet the same way you always do."
Sun Wukong was squatting by the pot, stirring the porridge with a spoon, when he heard this, he slammed the spoon handle against the edge of the pot with a crisp sound.
"I'm going too."
Si Mo emerged from behind the shed, carrying the complete set of documents. His hands hadn't stopped all night; his fingertips were worn raw. The complete set was so thick that he was holding it a little crookedly, leaving a slanted line on his shoulder.
"The seventh register is in the cabinet on the third floor," he said. "The key is in the old printing shop on the street. The bolt on the printing shop door is half broken; I saw it last night when I went to get lamp oil."
Chen Fan glanced at him: "Lead the way."
When the group entered the city, the streets were still filled with the smell of smoke.
The fire started quickly last night, blackening the lintels of several houses, and leaving smudges of paper in the corners of the walls. The long bench in front of the medicine window was crooked, with one foot propped up by half a brick. The one-eyed old man had already sat back down in his original spot, the same medicine prescription still on his lap.
Seeing Chen Fan approach, he squinted and asked, "Are you dealing cards again today?"
"Send them out." Chen Fan didn't stop walking. "Send out the supplementary signatures first."
The old man tucked the medicine prescription into his sleeve, his voice steadyer than the night before: "Then I'll sit here and wait."
The third floor of the building was even more stuffy than the lower floors.
As soon as the door opened, a strong smell of stale paper wafted out. Rows of cabinets stood there, their corners gleaming from being polished. Si Mo didn't spend much time walking straight to the innermost cabinet and tapping its lower right corner.
"This one."
Lu Shouye handed over the keys, his palms sweaty.
The keyhole clicked twice before opening. Pulling the cabinet door open, one found only a few ledgers and an old wooden box. The box was small, with iron-bound corners and worn-white edges. Two old characters were written on the box's surface: "Seventh Rank."
Lu Shouye looked at the box, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"It wasn't sealed like this before," he said in a low voice. "Before, when it was sealed back, we would just put a seal on the outside, without writing anything on it."
"That was before." Chen Fan took out the box, weighed it in his hand, and said, "This time, we'll try a different approach."
A crowd quickly gathered downstairs.
The first to gather around were the families who had moved out the night before. Hearing that they were going to reopen their old stalls, they didn't even bother with their cooking pots. Later, came the clerks, pharmacists, and old men who had stayed at the street office. The old table in the courtyard was dragged out; its surface was pitted and uneven, perfect for displaying boxes.
Chen Fan put it in seventh gear, pressed down, and the surroundings gradually quieted down.
"Everyone knows half of why I turned it on last night," he said. "Today I'll explain the other half."
Lu Shouye subconsciously pursed his lips.
Chen Fan didn't look at him, but only raised his chin at Si Mo.
"read."
Si Mo opened the register and began reading the names of those who had moved out the previous night. He read slowly. With each name read, there was a response. Some people raised their hands in the crowd, some helped others to move forward, and some women, holding children, only raised their chins slightly. When he read the last two names that didn't receive a response, someone nearby answered for them, saying that the person had gone to the east shed to collect medicine, and that the person with the leg injury was still asleep.
After it was read, the courtyard became even quieter.
Chen Fan then opened the box.
There was no gold or silver, nor any official seal, in the box. It contained only old name cards, old replacement slips, red-labeled ledgers, and a few loose pages of documents about relocation that hadn't been recorded. The top page was curled at the edges, with a line of small writing in the corner: "Seven documents temporarily stored, to be discussed later."
It's obvious to everyone how long it took to recover.
Lu Shouye stood by the table, his temples twitching twice.
Chen Fan pulled out the loose page and flattened it on the table.
"Those who moved out last night weren't the first batch." He looked at the crowd. "People have moved before. Where they moved to, why they moved, who approved it, who suppressed it—some of it is written down, some isn't. Those that weren't written down, we'll fill in the details today."
There was movement in the crowd.
The woman who had handed over the wooden box the night before squeezed to the front. She stared at the pile of old invitations on the table, her lips moved slightly, and she asked directly, "Is my husband's name in there?"
Si Mo squatted down and rummaged through the stack, finally pulling out a rough-edged note from the third pile: "It's here. There's a relocation slip tucked in the back, but it's unstamped."
The woman reached out to take it, but pulled her hand back halfway through.
"Read it," she said.
Si Mo then read it aloud.
Name, original alley, reason for relocation, abandoned warehouse to which they moved, number of people traveling with them. Even Si Mo's voice paused for a moment as he read the list. The draft was only half-written before it stopped; only two of the last four characters were legible: "not returned."
The woman didn't cry after hearing this. She simply lifted the child higher on her shoulder and stood still. After a couple of breaths, she spoke: "Write it in the external signature as well."
Chen Fan nodded: "Write it."
Now everyone behind understood.
Instead of locking the box back in and pretending it hadn't been touched, they locked it away again.
The reason for opening this account, the witnesses, and the people who moved out must all be written out on the outside. Anyone who tries to renege on their promise will have to look at the box first.
Sun Wukong stood by the table with his arms crossed, grinning, "This is good. It can't be hidden even if you want to."
Lu Shouye remained silent for a long time, then suddenly took out his seal from his sleeve and placed it on the table.
"I'm also a witness," he said. "I led the way to open the cabinet last night. Write it down."
Chen Fan glanced at him, said nothing, and simply spread out the blank external signature.
That's not the original small seal.
Si Mo found a thick sheet of paper, cut it into a long strip, and then smoothed it with paste. Chen Fan picked up a pen and first wrote the name of the box, then wrote the reason for opening the file today: the paper labels were burned, the old book was incomplete, the relocated people need to be verified, so the seventh file is opened.
The next line should list the witnesses.
Chen Fan, Sun Wukong, Si Mo, Lu Shouye.
Next, write down the number of people who moved out.
One hundred and seventeen bites last night.
Next, write down your destination.
The first to third rows of the east shed, the first to second rows of the west shed, and the temporary accommodation next to the medicine shed in the south corner are listed on a separate page.
The writing wasn't fancy, but it was very steady. People around craned their necks to look, but no one said a word; all that could be heard was the scratching sound of the pen tip scraping the paper.
After finishing writing, Chen Fan handed the pen to Lu Shouye.
"There's one more thing."
Lu Shouye took it, his fingertips slightly stiff: "What should I write?"
"Write down the omissions," Chen Fan said. "How many old relocations haven't been completed, how many pages are unprinted, and how many are missing? Let's count them today and fill them in one by one later."
Lu Shouye looked down at the box, and after a long while, he actually put down his pen.
Twenty-nine households were relocated but not compensated.
Unprinted, loose pages, eleven pages.
Their whereabouts are unknown; seven people.
He wrote the last three characters very slowly, the strokes heavy and labored. After finishing, he put the pen back on the table, as if he were putting something else down with it.
Si Mo took the paste sealant and, instead of sticking it into the seams of the box, simply pasted it around the outside of the box. The thick paper pressed against the old wood, like giving it a new skin. After pasting it on, he used the master book to press down the corners to prevent it from curling up.
Chen Fan raised his hand and tapped the wooden box.
"Listen carefully." His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the courtyard heard him. "From today onwards, any changes to the old files must be made through official channels."
Someone asked softly, "What does 'the right path' mean?"
Chen Fan looked over.
"Openly open the files. Openly relocate. Openly seal them off." He said each word carefully. "Who opened them, why they were opened, how many people were relocated, where they were relocated to, who was present, who witnessed it, it's all written out. You can lock the paper in the cabinet, but you can't lock the names."
There was a moment of silence in the courtyard, then someone responded with a "Okay".
The sound wasn't loud, but someone answered it from behind. Then, another sound came. It was like the embers of last night's fire, now in a different place, slowly lighting up again.
Sun Wukong reached out and picked up the box, weighed it in his hand, and walked towards the white wall at the entrance of the street office.
"Don't put it back on the third floor," he said. "Just hang it here."
The wooden frame where the notice used to be pinned at the entrance of the street office was still there, but a corner was charred black. Sun Wukong ripped off the old rope in two swift movements, found a new hemp rope nearby, tied the seventh post securely, and hung it directly in the most conspicuous position.
The wooden box hit the wooden frame with a thud.
The sign faces outwards, with black and white text on white paper, clearly visible even from the street corner.
The one-eyed old man, leaning on his knees, slowly approached, looked up at him for a long time, and then suddenly smiled.
"This time it's done," he said.
Lu Shouye stood on the threshold, looking up at the box as if he were seeing this place, Jiesi, for the first time. A breeze came from the alleyway, causing the newly pasted paper edge on the corner of the box to tremble slightly before settling back firmly.
Just then, someone ran over from the east shed, shouting as they ran, "Mr. Lu! The people who need to sign in are lined up. Who should we write first?"
Lu Shouye snapped out of his daze and, almost without stopping, turned and headed to the table.
"According to last night's register," he said as he walked. "The elderly first, then the children, and those who need medicine first. Don't leave any blank spaces; write down where they go."
After saying that, he sat down first, took out a new sheet of paper, and dipped his brush in ink.
Chapter 721 The Convenient Bookkeeping Method
At the early morning market, the first thing to heat up isn't the pot, but the pen.
Three lines formed outside the east shed: one for receiving grain rations, one for signing up for new contracts, and one for looking for someone. The stacks of coarse paper on the table had shrunk by half overnight, and a hard crust had formed on the edge of the inkstone; if you scratched it with your fingernail, the bottom was still wet.
As soon as Lu Shouye settled down, someone handed him a small booklet to the table.
"Mr. Lu, look at this."
The man who handed over the notebook was a small vendor selling dried fish. He was thin, quick-witted, and his clothes were still stained with salt. He opened the notebook, tapped his fingers twice on the paper, and had an air of barely suppressed smugness about him.
"A new method. It spread from the north shed yesterday. Fill in three items, and then you can complete the rest yourself."
Lu Shouye looked up at him but didn't answer first.
"What three things?"
"Goods, Names, Workers." The man quickly flipped it over for him to see. "Goods are the quantity, names are the people who handled them, and workers are the laborers who carried them. Write them according to the grid. After you finish writing, press it down, and the booklet will automatically fill in the last few columns. Weight, destination, time, even the short signature can be added."
Several people nearby gathered around upon hearing the noise.
Some people craned their necks to look, while others simply stuffed the tattered paper in their hands into their clothes, as if afraid of being outdone.
The dried fish seller added, "It saves time and ink. Before, when I asked someone to record the contents of a boatload of salted fish, it would take half an hour. Last night, I filled in three lines myself, and before a cup of tea had even cooled, the whole book was finished."
He pushed that page forward.
The paper wasn't very good. The edges were frayed. But the characters were neat, straight and even the small strokes were identical. It said on the top that there were eighty-six baskets of dried fish, handled by Hu Liushun and three workers. Turning to the next few pages, it was indeed all there. It showed which ship entered the port, under which shed the fish was weighed, which shop it was given to, and even a basket that was lost during unloading was patched up in the corner.
The onlookers clicked their tongues in disapproval.
"This really saves a lot of trouble."
Who made it?
"I heard the Two Worlds Market came first. Now the news is spreading to the port area too."
"My family's stall can't even write three characters properly. If that's true, it could be very useful."
Lu Shouye picked up the notebook, flipped through it, and then smelled the ink on the paper. The ink smell wasn't strong; instead, it had the scent of an old book that had been damp and then dried in the sun, which lingered on his nose.
"Where did it come from?"
The dried fish seller paused for a moment.
"Where did it come from..." He scratched behind his ear. "It was given to me by a delivery guy when I was closing up shop last night. He said it was a new template. He told me to use it first and pay him back later. I tried it and it really worked, so I kept it."
Where are they?
"I didn't look closely. The brim of my hat was pulled low. And I was walking fast."
Lu Shouye closed the notebook, pressing his fingertip against the cover, but didn't return it immediately.
A porter carrying sacks nearby, listening with envy, interjected, "Mr. Lu, if this method is truly reliable, we can use it in Dongpeng too. Last night, I was so busy memorizing names that my hands were shaking. This morning, there's still a bunch of empty pens that haven't been filled."
"Yes," another stall owner chimed in, "It's not that we're being lazy, it's just that the work is too varied. When there are many people and the writing gets messy, it's easy to miss something. At least this one doesn't miss anything."
Upon hearing this, everyone around nodded in agreement.
What we lack most right now isn't just food or shelter, but also skilled bookkeepers. The last two nights, while moving people and goods, a single mistake would require searching the entire camp. Everyone knows the ledgers are important, but when it's past midnight, eyelids droop, and even the pen tip can bend.
The word "convenient" is more appealing than hot porridge at this time.
Lu Shouye neither agreed nor disagreed. He placed the booklet beside him, took out another sheet of paper, and copied it from memory, following the grid pattern. The grid was simple, starting with three columns and branching at the bottom. It resembled ordinary accounting methods, but with a few more fine lines, cleverly drawn.
Si Mo happened to catch a glimpse of it when he came over to retrieve the supplementary signature book.
"Where did this trick come from?"
"It's spread throughout the market." Lu Shouye handed him the booklet. "Take a look."
Si Mo turned two pages, his brows didn't move, but his hand paused.
"The characters are the same."
"Um."
"The weight of each page is the same, no matter how many dozen pages it's in." Si Mo turned the notebook to the side, facing the light from the shed. "Even the first stroke of the pen looks like it was carved out."
Lu Shouye took it back: "But it's useful."
Si Mo didn't speak.
The word "useful" is also the most troublesome.
People from the port area also arrived in the morning.
The innkeeper was a minor official, his shoes covered in wet mud. He poured half a bowl of cold water as soon as he entered, and then took out two booklets from his pocket after putting down the bowl.
Where is Mr. Chen?
"It's still in the back shed," Lu Shouye asked. "You have some too?"
"More than that." The clerk slammed the booklet on the table. "It's already been used for half a day. All three teams of porters are scrambling to get it. This morning, two boats of cloth and one boat of medicine were being transported. Normally, you'd have to wait until the sun was setting to exchange them. But today, an illiterate boat leader just typed a few words into the template, and the booklet filled up on its own. He even brought out the wage slips."
He couldn't help but gasp as he said this.
"It's so convenient."
"Is there an error?"
"I don't see it right now. The numbers match. The names are correct too."
Si Mo opened one of the books. The first page was neat, the second page was neat, and the third page was also neat. Neat to the point of being rigid.
"Who brought them in first?"
"An old man selling paper and pens," the clerk recalled, frowning. "He was unfamiliar. I asked him which shop he worked at, and he smiled and said it was an old method being reformed for the new system, which would save us a lot of trouble from now on. I was busy unloading the goods and didn't stop him."
Lu Shouye and Si Mo exchanged a glance.
This news spread too fast.
It took less than half a day to get from the market to the port area. The people who passed on the methods didn't leave their names; it was as if they deliberately chose the busiest time to stuff the things into people's hands and watch them use them on their own.
Just then, someone outside called out to Chen Fan.
Chen Fan lifted the curtain and came in, his sleeves still rolled up and his hands dusty. He first glanced at the two booklets on the table, then looked at the expressions on the faces of the others.
"What is it?"
Lu Shouye briefly explained the whole story.
Chen Fan didn't rush to take the notebook; he first asked the clerk, "How many people used it?"
"There are seven or eight stores in the port area. There are even more small businesses. They all say it works well."
"There are plenty here at the market too," the dried fish vendor chimed in, still standing to the side. "Who isn't busy these days? Who wouldn't want to write less?"
Chen Fan then picked up the notebook and slowly turned to the last page.
The last page is blank.
He flipped through the pages again, his fingers suddenly stopping on the inside of the cover. That area was thicker than the rest, like a very thin sheet of paper sandwiched between the pages. It was hard to notice unless you felt it closely.
"Here comes the knife."
Si Mo handed over a small, thin paper-cutting blade.
Chen Fan gently lifted the inner side, revealing half an inch. Sure enough, there was a liner. It wasn't tucked behind the first page, but rather pressed between the cover and the first page, as thin as an old cicada's wing. A patch of light ink smudged on it, which had spread out, leaving only a few broken marks.
Everyone in the room gathered around.
"What did you write?"
"I can't see clearly."
The paper looked quite old, its edges brittle. Chen Fan didn't tear any further, only pressing it with his fingertip. There were creases underneath the thin paper; it wasn't just one page, but two. The top sheet was completely empty, as if it were used to pad something.
Si Mo narrowed his eyes.
Page Zero.
Lu Shouye was taken aback for a moment, then he understood. Ordinary people flip through a booklet and only look at the first page. Who would think there was another layer hidden before that?
Chen Fan closed the booklet again, his expression unchanged.
"Don't make a fuss yet."
Upon hearing this, the heat on the face of the dried fish vendor subsided somewhat.
"Mr. Chen, is there something wrong with this thing?"
"It hasn't bitten anyone yet." Chen Fan pushed the booklet back onto the table. "The easier something is, the more you need to see which step it saves you. With ledgers, you can't skip a single step."
The room fell silent for a moment.
The calls were still going off outside, and the cries of children drifted in through the tarpaulin. In the distance, the creaking of wooden wheels rolling across the port area could be heard. The liveliness hadn't diminished at all; it was as if nothing had changed.
Chen Fan turned to the clerk and asked, "How many of the new registers from the port area today have you been able to collect?"
"Half of them can be collected."
"They've all been accepted. They said it's for verification and printing."
He then looked at Lu Shouye: "The same goes for the market. Everyone who used this template, have it all checked before tonight. Don't forbid it, make them submit copies first. Anyone who can't bear to part with the original can just copy it."
Lu Shouye nodded: "I'll take care of it."
"Find a few more sharp-eyed people," Chen Fan said. "Check three things first. First, see if there's a hidden compartment at the beginning of the first page. Second, see where the later copies went; do they all follow the same pattern? Third, find the person who first received the notebook and ask who handed it to them."
Si Mo opened the booklet again and lightly scratched the edge of the paper with his fingernail.
"The ink will seep back."
"Um?"
"It wasn't there just now." Si Mo turned the booklet to one side in the light, and a gray line slowly emerged on the back of the paper, like a watermark, or like old words coming to life. "It appears when it's heated. It fades again after a while when it's cool."
Everyone kept their eyes on it.
The gray line was very thin, extending from under the character "工三人" (Gong Sanren) and continuing to the next page. It was like a rope, running alongside each newly added character.
The vendor selling dried fish's expression changed. He reached out to snatch the notebook back, but stopped halfway through reading, his hand hovering in mid-air.
"I...I used it to record two cargo shipments last night."
Chen Fan raised his hand and pressed his hand down.
"Don't touch it. Just dictate what you wrote down last night, and then write it down again."
The man swallowed hard and nodded repeatedly.
Chen Fan didn't look at the gray line anymore, but simply placed the paper cutter on the booklet to cover the page.
"Move the brazier further away," he said. "This thing gets hot easily. Don't let it wake up too quickly."
Chapter 722 Old Hints in Chen Fan's Mind
Even after nightfall, a small lamp was still lit in the street office.
The wick was short, and the flame seemed to be biting at a thread. Several new ledgers were spread out on the table, the pages pressing down on the paper cutter, the edges slightly curled. It had been quite noisy during the day, but now it was finally quiet, with only the footsteps of the night patrolman outside the shed, circling back and forth from east to west.
Chen Fan was not asleep.
He sat at the table, going over the names of everyone who had moved in that day. How many were elderly, how many were children, how many empty sheds were left, how many medicine pots had been used, how many wooden stakes had been added, and even the fact that the bottom of the pot in the east shed had cracked—he noted all of this down.
The accounts I keep these days are getting more and more complicated.
At first, it was just names. Then, destinations, relatives, and shortages of medicine and food were added. Later still, old family records were added, names of families whose original place of residence needed to be changed, and names of family members who weren't all present—all of that was stuffed in. With so many papers, searching became slow. During the day, people would crowd together asking questions, and even flipping through half a page would take a lot of time.
He gripped the pen, his eyelids feeling heavy.
The old book with gray lines on it was pressed to the bottom of the table. The brazier had long been moved far away, about ten feet away from the table legs. Si Mo checked it again before going to bed, making sure the page was no longer lined, before going to the west room to doze off.
Chen Fan raised his hand and pressed his temples.
These past few days, he's felt like there's a blank space in his mind. It's not that he's forgotten anything important; it's like something he should have reached out and touched but hasn't, yet he knows it was there before.
A little night breeze seeped in through the crack in the window.
The light flickered, and the shadow on the wall moved slightly.
At that very moment, he suddenly heard a sound in his ear, not loud, flat, like a piece of metal scraping against something.
"Completing the missing pages can restore efficient bookkeeping."
Chen Fan paused, the ink leaving a small black dot on the paper.
There was no one inside.
The footsteps outside the door continued, slowly fading away. The lamp was still the same lamp, the table was still the same table. Even the glowing embers in the brazier hadn't brightened much more. But those words, it seemed, had been spoken right behind his head, suddenly disappearing as soon as they were gone.
He sat still.
After a while, he put down his pen and looked up at the old book at the bottom.
This wasn't Lu Shouye's tone. Nor was it something Si Mo would say.
It's not the intonation that a human being should have when speaking.
He had heard that sound before.
I've heard it more than once.
When he first transmigrated, he relied on that broken system to survive. Later, things spiraled out of control, the system broke down, became mute, and eventually almost fell silent. So much time passed that he almost forgot its original tone. Tonight, it was like a bubble rising from the bottom of an old well, then sinking back down without leaving a ripple.
Chen Fan reached out and pulled out the booklet from underneath.
The pages were damp and felt cooler than the other papers. He turned to the page from the daytime; the thin gray line was still pasted under "Three Workers," like a dried blade of grass, trailing a few strokes before breaking off. The break was smooth, not like it had been burned, but rather as if it had shrunk back on its own.
"Fill in the missing pages..."
He read it aloud in a low voice.
Which page is missing?
He had flipped through this book during the day and found nothing missing. Lu Shouye later brought over several other old ledgers, which he also looked through. They were tattered and messy, but there weren't many truly missing parts. If we're talking about bookkeeping, the strangest one right now is this old book that has been re-threaded itself.
He unfolded each page and examined them against the light. The back of the paper had a yellowish tint, and the page numbers were handwritten, crooked and uneven. When he turned to the middle, he noticed a hard blob of ink on the corner of one page, as if it had been rubbed against the edge of some paper. He rubbed it a couple of times, but it didn't come off.
Chen Fan felt a thorn in his side.
He closed the book again and measured its thickness with a ruler. The spine was a bit bulging and uneven, as if something else had been sandwiched in the middle, and only after it was removed did it become clear.
But even if we try to dismantle it now, we won't get anything out of it.
Without disturbing anyone, he simply pressed the book back onto the table. He then covered it with an old cloth and lowered the lamp by half. Before returning to the inner room, he paused at the threshold and glanced at the dark bookshelf.
The cabinet, against the north wall, originally held contracts and old ledgers. Lately, with manpower tight, whoever has a spare moment stuffs things in, making it quite messy. Half a bamboo skewer is still stuck on the top shelf, leftover from registering stall numbers the day before yesterday.
He stared for a couple of moments, then didn't go over.
If you move these things at night and make any noise, Si Mo will surely wake up.
The next day, just as dawn broke, the pots in the east shed were already boiling.
The smell of porridge and damp wood wafted in together. Someone was announcing the names of medicines at the door, while others came to collect supplementary prescriptions. Lu Shouye carried a stack of new papers, walking with a brisk pace. Si Mo was already sitting at the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grinding ink while cursing who had dried out the brush last night.
Chen Fan did not touch the account book first.
He took the key and went straight to the bookshelf on the north wall.
Si Mo looked up at him and asked, "What are you flipping through so early in the morning?"
"Find some blank paper," Chen Fan said. "I forgot to write down two lines last night, and there's no time to cut them now."
Si Mo snorted and lowered his head to continue grinding.
The wooden doors of the bookcase were a bit bulging, making a dull thud when pulled open. Inside, there was a strong smell of old paper, mixed with a hint of mildew. Chen Fan flipped through the books from top to bottom, slowly, his fingers tracing the spines of each volume. To an outsider, it looked like he was genuinely looking for paper, but he was only focused on one thing—whether there was anything in the cabinet that wasn't in the bookcase.
The top shelf was unremarkable, just the old accounts from the street office. The middle shelf contained transfer registers and name cards. When he reached the bottom shelf, the back of his hand brushed against the inside of the cabinet, picking up a bit of black ash.
It's not gray.
It looks more like the fine powder left after the paper edge has burned.
He stopped and peered further inside. On the far right of the bottom shelf, there was a narrow gap between the cabinet panel and the side wall, usually inconspicuous. A white corner was tucked into the gap, only a tiny bit showing. The white wasn't clean; black seeped through the edges, as if licked by flames but not actually burned through.
Chen Fan stretched out two fingers and tried to pinch it for a long time, but couldn't get it out. He then turned around and picked up the paper cutter.
The knife tip probed in, and with a gentle nudge, the thing slowly loosened.
It's a piece of paper.
It wasn't large, only about half the width of a letter. The paper was stiff, but the center was blank, without a single word. The strange thing was the black mark around the edge. The black mark wasn't smeared on from the outside, but rather seemed to seep out from within the paper, a thin layer creeping along the fibers. Upon closer inspection, there was also a very faint gray line embedded in that black edge, the same color as what had appeared on the ledger last night.
Chen Fan put the paper under the light, his eyes darkening.
This piece of paper is not in the general ledger.
He recognized the paper used for the general ledger. Its thickness, texture, and cut all had the characteristics of the street office. The one in front of him was even finer, and felt rough to the touch, like a page taken from an old book. But it had no writing on it, as if it had been hidden in the crack of the cabinet before it was written on.
Hearing the cabinet door opening and closing repeatedly, Si Mo couldn't help but ask again, "Did you find it?"
"Found it," Chen Fan replied.
He stuffed the white paper into his sleeve, then casually pulled out a few blank sheets to avoid arousing Si Mo's suspicion. As he closed the cabinet door, he glanced at the crack again. There was still a little black residue in the crack, almost gone, and it would dissipate with a scratch of his fingernail.
Lu Shouye entered the room carrying the visiting card, his forehead covered in sweat.
"Three old households need to be added to the register in Xipeng," he said. "The woman who was carrying the child yesterday also came and said there was an unfamiliar piece of paper in the wooden box. She asked if we wanted it added separately."
Chen Fan's eyelids twitched slightly, and he looked up at him.
"What extra paper?"
"She said there were no words on it." Lu Shouye put the name card down. "The edges are a bit blackened. It's probably been smoked in a fire. She didn't dare throw it away, so she put it back."
Si Mo stopped grinding ink and looked up: "Black borders again?"
The room fell silent for a moment.
Chen Fan placed the blank sheets of paper on the table, his voice steady: "Don't tell anyone yet. Show me the one in the wooden box. From today onwards, any old accounts, old notes, or old boxes with blank sheets of paper inside must be kept separately and not mixed back into their original places."
Lu Shouye nodded and turned to leave.
Si Mo looked at him and asked in a low voice, "Is there any movement on that booklet from last night?"
Chen Fan did not answer immediately.
He pulled the white paper out of his sleeve, laid it flat on the corner of the table, and used a paper cutter to hold down one end to prevent it from curling up on its own.
The black edges were even clearer in the morning light, like a ring of gray that hadn't quite cooled down yet.
"Make a note of the people first," he said. "We can talk about the paper later when everyone's gone."
Si Mo stared at the paper for a moment, then didn't ask any more questions. He simply pushed the ground ink forward.
Another line formed outside the door.
The first old man to enter carried a medicine bag. After announcing his name, he coughed twice and bent over even lower. Lu Shouye hadn't returned yet, so Si Mo picked up his pen to write. Chen Fan sat beside him, his fingers pressing down on a corner of the white paper. The area under his fingertips felt cool, like pressing down on a thin tile soaked in well water.
Chapter 723 Automatically Transcribed Ink
There were more people in the morning than in the early morning.
A line of people stretched out from the east entrance of the shed. Some were carrying children, some were leaning on canes, and some were carrying bundles; they all waited by the door. Si Mo sat behind the table, three booklets spread out beside him: one for recording relocations, one for recording grain rations, and one for recording work. The ink had just been ground, and its aroma, tinged with a slightly damp woody smell, filled the air.
Chen Fan was still holding down that piece of white paper.
The paper corners stopped curling, as if it had become obedient. But the chill beneath his fingertips lingered, creeping up the wooden table and making one feel empty inside.
After the old man in front of him finished registering, he also registered his son's name. Si Mo wrote down the characters stroke by stroke, and when he wrote "son, sixteen, wood carrier," the tip of his pen paused slightly.
It wasn't him who wanted to stop.
The pen slid half an inch to the right on its own.
Si Mo's eyelids twitched, and he immediately raised his wrist, twisting the pen back. A thin black line appeared on the paper, like an insect's leg, about to connect to the next name.
"Change the pen," Chen Fan said.
Si Mo didn't respond. He finished the line first, then put down his brush and picked up the old, stiff-bristled brush next to him. The old brush was lightly dipped in ink, and the writing turned grayish. He wrote three strokes without making any more mistakes, and only then did his expression soften.
Two more people passed by, and a thin book was brought in from outside.
The booklet was distributed last night to record short-term jobs at various stalls. The cover was rough and yellow, with sweat stains on the corners. The man who delivered the booklet was thin, his feet covered in mud. He wiped his hands as he entered before handing the booklet over with both hands.
"Mr. Si, the row of earthen stoves on the south side is finished. I've taken notes of the four day laborers who came this morning. Could you please take a look at them for me?"
Si Mo took it, flipped through two pages, and his brows slowly furrowed.
Who wrote these four characters?
The skinny man paused, then said, "I wrote it. It's the convenient method I learned last night. There were too many people, and I was afraid of misremembering, so I just drew lines as taught earlier and continued from there."
Si Mo placed the booklet flat on the table and pointed to a spot along the middle seam with his fingertip.
"You read it."
The skinny man bent down to look: "Ding Ershui, carrying mud. He Mancang, lifting bricks. Liu Xiaowu, mixing ash. Cui Liu, tending the fire. They're all here."
After he finished speaking, neither of the two people in the room made a sound.
There are not four people listed in the booklet.
That page was written very neatly, as if it had been copied. It only listed one item: "Three day laborers for half a day, who can replace one main laborer and adjust the cooking area."
The words "can replace labor" were the darkest, so dark they shone. There was a small circle after it, as if someone had casually marked it.
The skinny man saw it and immediately straightened his back.
"I didn't write this." He quickly pulled his hand back. "I really did write them one by one. I remember, that Cui Liu had a mole on his left cheek. He complained about the smoke from the stove and asked about his wages first."
Chen Fan dragged the booklet over, flipped to the previous page, and then to the next page.
The front page is a jumble of names. The back page is the same. Only the middle page is overdone, as if someone was too lazy to do anything else and smeared four mouths, four hands, and four jobs into a mess.
"What kind of ink did you use last night?" Chen Fan asked.
"The bowl from the street office. I found it troublesome to dip it back and forth, so I followed the gentleman's instructions and scraped the remaining ink onto the edge of the page, then mixed it with some water."
Upon hearing this, Si Mo had already reached under another booklet.
Those were the grain requisition books collected early this morning. They were also kept by the person who taught him the simplification method last night. He flipped over the first few pages, turned to the last one, pinched the corner of the bottom page, and slowly lifted it up.
There was an extra layer of black marks underneath.
It wasn't a large patch of ink. It was a very thin layer, like a puff of smoke seeping into the paper. The edges followed the grain of the paper, and it was practically invisible unless held up to the light. Si Mo flipped to the bottom of the workbook again, and in the same spot, there was the same layer of black ink.
"Take two more," he said.
The thin man who delivered the booklets was still standing when he heard this, and hurriedly ran outside. A little while later, he returned with three more booklets. One recorded timber, one medicine packets, and one cooking pots and stoves. All were booklets from the previous night's convenient bookkeeping method.
Si Mo flipped through the pages one by one to the end.
The bottom page of each book has black marks.
Some are light, like fingertips rubbing against stove ash. Some are heavy, like ink that has dried and been pressed again. The heaviest is the wood book, the last page of which is almost entirely black, though it feels dry to the touch, leaving a slight coolness on the fingertips.
The room quieted down, and even the sounds of people queuing outside seemed distant.
Chen Fan reopened the earliest book of short-term workers and stared at the line "can replace laborers".
"It's not just random writing," he said.
Si Mo looked up at him.
"It's saving people trouble." Chen Fan pressed his finger on the line of text. "Four day laborers, one got sick, one ran away, and one changed sheds, all of them had to be recorded again. It's too much trouble, so it just merged them into one line. Whoever comes to fill in, fills in."
The skinny man turned pale upon hearing this.
"But that won't do. Liu Xiaowu was in charge of the stove yesterday, and He Mancang only carried bricks twice. If we really adjust the personnel according to this arrangement today, the medicinal porridge and the cooking temperature will be messed up."
Si Mo didn't say anything, but took the paper cutter and gently scraped along the edge of that row.
After scraping three times, a layer of fuzz appeared on the paper. The black characters didn't fade; instead, a finer layer of strokes emerged from underneath, as if they had been covering other characters. After scraping again, the two halves of "丁" and "何" first appeared, then were slowly glued back together, rejoining the six characters.
The skinny man gasped, took a half step back, and almost knocked over the stool by the door.
Chen Fan raised his hand and pressed down on the corner of the book to prevent it from closing.
"Don't be afraid. It doesn't want your life."
He laid out the labor register, the grain ration book, and the timber register in order. Three booklets, three black marks, all on the bottom page. It was as if with each layer filled, the slightest thought of taking shortcuts sank to the bottom along with the ink, forming a solid line.
Si Mo understood about 70% of what was being said, and his expression darkened further.
"I said something during the teaching last night," he said in a low voice, "Don't leave any blank spaces. If you can merge them, then you'll have more options later."
"It remembered," Chen Fan said.
It's not that I memorized the words, it's that I memorized the approach.
Skip the name, skip the verification, skip the follow-up questions. One less heading, one more stroke for merging. People prioritize convenience, so it takes a step forward, swallowing the last bit of confirmation along with it.
A child started crying outside the door, the sobs shrill and sharp, like needles piercing paper. The three people inside didn't move. After a while, someone outside tried to soothe the child, and the crying subsided.
Si Mo closed the booklets, then immediately separated them to prevent them from stacking together.
"It has to stop," he said. "From today onwards, all the methods of recording information from last night will be discontinued. Record names separately, record destinations separately, and create a separate column for job transfers."
"That's not enough," Chen Fan said. "Collect all the booklets that used that method. Don't burn them or soak them in water yet. Cut out the bottom pages and keep them separately."
Si Mo nodded and picked up his pen to write the notice. Halfway through, he stopped and switched to his old, stiff-bristled brush. The new brush lay to the side, tip down, as ink droplets slowly dripped onto the wooden board, as if reluctant to fall.
At this moment, Lu Shouye rushed back from outside, his robe dusty, and he could tell something was wrong as soon as he entered.
"What's wrong?"
Si Mo pushed the short-term labor register over.
Lu Shouye looked down and read the text, first focusing on the line of words, then turning to the bottom page. When he saw the black mark, his eyes darkened, and he ran his fingers along the edge of the paper twice.
"My external referral book..."
"Give it to me," Chen Fan said.
Lu Shouye turned around and went to get it. The box had only been sealed last night, and he was sweating as he returned quickly. After he brought the seventh-tier external signing book to the table, Si Mo tore open the seal, flipped to the bottom page, and all three of them saw it.
It's heavier than the others.
The black marks spread from the bottom of the page to the center line, as if someone had pressed a layer of light ink between the pages overnight. Lu Shouye flipped back to the previous page and found the one he had signed yesterday. The elderly, children, and those lacking medicine should have been clearly distinguished. But now, two of the marginal notes were different.
The original text read "Medicine shortage, insert before".
Now it has become "can be postponed, to be supplemented later".
The handwriting is the same as Lu Shouye's. Even the way he finishes his strokes is the same.
Lu Shouye stared for a few moments, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I haven't changed it."
"I know." Chen Fan closed the booklet. "It will follow your handwriting and fill in the gaps according to your ideas. You were in a rush last night, only thinking about getting the queue in order, so it pushed the slow and troublesome ones to the back for you."
The room suddenly got even colder.
This is no longer about copying an extra line or a single stroke.
It started making decisions for people.
Si Mo finished writing the notice, and without even blowing on it, handed it directly to the clerk at the door: "Post it out. Then go to each stall and spread the word. Anyone whose name is crowded together in a row, have their name re-recorded this afternoon. The person taking the roll call must be present."
The clerk took the paper and ran away.
Lu Shouye stood by the table, his face pale. He raised his hand to touch the foreign talent book, but stopped in mid-air and instead rolled up his sleeves.
"If someone actually dispenses the medicine according to the instructions, the elderly will have to wait an extra half day."
"So let's investigate now," Chen Fan said.
He tucked the white paper away, placing it on top of several black-inked notebooks. The edge of that paper was no longer so cold, as if it had absorbed the ink's saturation, lying there quietly.
The sun was rising higher outside, and the shadows cast by the awning were getting shorter. The people in line, confused, were still calling out their names at the entrance. Si Mo sat down again, opened a new page, and wrote two words heavily at the top.
Names.
After writing those two characters, he pushed all the old booklets to the corner of the table and took out a bowl of new ink. The servant grinding the ink trembled slightly, and the ink stick tapped against the edge of the inkstone with a crisp sound. The ink master didn't look up, but simply dipped the old, stiff-bristled ink stick in the ink, and called out towards the door:
"Next. Come in and give your full name first; we won't remember you if you miss a single word."
Chapter 724 The Pseudo-System Stall
By the time Liu Er reached the end of the Two Realms Market, the sky was already beginning to set in the west.
The wind blew through from under the awning, making the banner flap back and forth. Three small stalls were set up in the corner. The stalls weren't big, and the wooden planks were old, yet there were quite a few people coming and going.
He stopped first in front of the paper stall.
The stall owner was a thin-faced man who smiled at everyone he met, holding a stack of thin paper in his hand.
"It looks like it'll save you time," the man said. "And I'll throw in a packet of ink too. They'll be gone if you come any later."
Liu Er remained silent and casually flipped through the papers.
The paper wasn't new, but the edges were neat. A sample sheet lay on top, the handwriting upright, even the blank spaces were left. Name, distance, quantity, destination—each section clearly marked, as if the form had been pre-calculated to show exactly how the person would fill it out.
A woman selling knots nearby was also calling out to customers.
"Take one. Just fill it out." She pushed a roll of thin string over. "I've even corrected the typos for you. Just copy it."
Liu Er's ear tip twitched.
"Who gave you this look?" he asked.
The woman looked up at him, as if she hadn't heard him clearly.
"Someone delivered it," she said. "They left it at the door before dawn. They said it was free, just use it."
After she finished speaking, she pulled out two packets of ink from the bottom of the bucket.
The ink packet was wrapped in yellow paper, on which a line of fine characters was printed.
The words were very small, as if afraid of being seen.
Liu Er leaned closer and tapped the paper lightly with his knuckles.
"Where else can you find it?"
The woman gestured with her lips toward the east.
"There are also people over there who buy mountain goods. They also sell old account books, with samples hanging all over the door. They give one to anyone who comes in, saying that copying them will save them a lot of trips."
Liu Er didn't ask any more questions and turned to leave.
He walked slowly, but his ears were always perked up. The further he went in, the more similar comments he heard.
"Free template provided."
"Take the ink packet first."
"Fill it out as is, don't change it randomly."
"Don't worry if you can't remember the words, just follow the circles."
These words drifted out from several stalls, like a string of thin hooks, specifically designed to hook people's hands.
Liu Er stopped beside an empty truck. A coarse cloth was laid on the truck bed, and several pieces of waste paper were pressed under the cloth. He pulled out one of the papers and saw a small black line on the back, like a mark left by ink that hadn't dried completely.
He held the corner of the paper and looked up at the surroundings.
The stall owners were all very ordinary. Heads down, they counted money, used abacuses, and collected coins. But under their stalls, they all had the same sample papers. Even the folding method was the same.
Liu Er stuffed the paper back in and went to the outside of the market.
He didn't chase after the people shouting. He focused on the deliveryman's feet first.
Fifteen minutes later, two teenagers pushed a wheelbarrow out from the west gate. The wheelbarrow was loaded with empty wooden boxes, but the bottom of the boxes was covered with a layer of black ash. The children walked quickly, muttering to themselves.
"I have to make two more deliveries today."
"They're pressing hard on Dongpeng."
"They said they didn't have enough ink cartridges."
Liu Er quietly followed.
The car hadn't gone far when it turned onto a roadside market. Sacks were piled up by the roadside, covered in a layer of fine dust. Further on, there was a makeshift thatched shed, filled with empty cardboard boxes.
A middle-aged man who looked like a manager was counting people from the roster. After counting a page, he moved the newly arrived ink cartridge to another column.
"This batch is for three companies," he said. "Take the samples too. Don't forget anything."
Liu Er stood outside the shed, not showing his face, but listening.
The man spoke very steadily, as if he had memorized it beforehand.
"Three stalls at the east end, two stalls in the south alley, and the remaining one is delivered to the tea shop. If anyone asks, just say it's the old printing shop's stock."
Liu Er lowered his brow.
Old printing workshop.
The moment the name was uttered, he knew this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. Someone had paved the way. First, they provided the paper, then the ink, and then people copied it. Once everyone had the same design, the next step wouldn't be about producing goods anymore.
That's true.
It's the rule.
People simply follow the path left behind by others.
He didn't listen anymore, turned around and left the cargo road, heading straight for Yang Jian.
Yang Jian was checking ink packets at the back of the market.
He had three packets on his table, and he tore open two of them with a knife. The black ink powder fell into the white porcelain plate; it was very fine, with a few glittery strands mixed in.
"The ink commonly used in the Three Realms shouldn't contain this stuff." Yang Jian rubbed it between his fingers. "It's been pressed into the paper fibers by a printing press. It wasn't made here."
Chen Fan stood to the side without saying a word.
Yang Jian opened the third package and turned the wrapping paper over. A faint code was printed on the back of the paper, along with a tiny factory logo.
The mark was slightly crooked, as if the machine was old and the marking wasn't fully applied.
"Where did it come from?" Chen Fan asked.
"They intercepted the goods on the way," Yang Jian said, spreading the paper out. "Liu Er's group has been keeping an eye on several stalls. The stall owners all say that the goods were given away for free."
Liu Er just lifted the curtain and came in, holding two sample papers in his hand.
"It's not just a few places," he said, "it's more than a dozen. Every single one of them says the same thing. Even the ink delivery people are saying almost the same thing."
Yang Jian took the sample paper, glanced at it, and his gaze darkened.
The formatting was too neat. Every column had blank space, and even the placement of typos had been corrected beforehand. It seemed like it was saving people time, but in reality, it forced people to write in the same way.
"Secure the supply first." Chen Fan pressed the paper down. "Ignore the stall owners, secure the ink first."
Yang Jian nodded and lightly flicked the back of the wrapping paper with his fingertip.
"The code on the ink cartridge isn't how it's used here," he said. "It looks like it came from an assembly line in an outside factory. You have to trace it back to the paper path."
He summoned two heavenly generals and gave them instructions very quickly.
"Check the warehouses that recently received this type of paper. Also, ask the delivery people where the goods were resold. Don't alert the stall owners. Keep an eye on the trucks, the boxes, and the people who restock at night."
The heavenly general went to receive the order.
Liu Er stood by the door, thought for a moment, and then repeated the few sentences he had overheard verbatim.
"They don't talk about selling," he said. "They just talk about copying. Whoever can't write, they give them a sample. Whoever can write, they ask them to help revise it. They don't say much, but after a while, people like to follow their path."
Chen Fan looked up at him.
"The stall owners are like tools; you take them and use them first," he said. "Once people get used to them, the words become their own."
The room was quiet for a moment.
Yang Jian had already rewrapped the packet of ink and tied the knot tightly.
"I'll trace it along the packaging paper," he said. "This kind of paper doesn't come out alone. There has to be a connection between the factory, the warehouse, and the truck."
As evening fell, the wind outside the market picked up.
Yang Jian, accompanied by two subordinates, exited the Gate Between Realms and followed the marks and numbers on the paper. Before midnight, the thread ended up in an abandoned printing factory.
The factory was located on the outskirts of the present-day city, and half of the iron gate had collapsed. The windows inside were shattered, and the ground was covered with a thick layer of dust. The machines had long since stopped, but there were still piles of unfinished cardboard boxes against the wall, printed with the same sample sheets from the Two Realms Market.
Yang Jian stood at the door and the first thing he saw was a row of empty ink barrels.
The rim of the bucket was still stained with black.
He reached out and touched it, and his fingertip immediately became covered in fine powder.
"The person just left not long ago," a heavenly general said in a low voice.
Yang Jian didn't respond and stepped directly into the factory.
On the innermost table lay a stack of unfinished templates. Next to it were several packets of ink, their packaging already opened, the serial numbers the same as those in the market. In the corner sat a wooden box, its lid half-open, inside which were neatly stacked sample sheets and blank booklets.
Yang Jian picked up the top sheet; the corner of the paper still bore the heat marks left by the machine.
He glanced down, then turned and walked out.
"Seal off the factory gates," he said. "Then check who this factory has recently been in contact with. The people may be gone, but the road is still there. Follow the road."
The night wind blew in from outside, swirling up a few scraps of paper on the table.
A piece of paper slid to Yang Jian's feet, with very faint characters on the back.
Send samples first.
Yang Jian bent down to pick it up, his fingertips lingered on the line of words for a moment, then he folded the paper and stuffed it into his sleeve.